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Literature Text
She asks me why I'm crying
and I say it's because I miss you.
How can she not see that?
She tells me that the bird that flew into the house
was tied to her own symbolic death.
She gave up what she knew
but she still hasn't given up control
and so the world pushes her
and pushes her,
the house floods,
she breaks her toe,
she says it was pointing straight up to the ceiling,
she stepped on glass,
she doesn't sleep
and she doesn't sleep,
she calls me,
cries to me,
she misses the dogs
and she is angry because she doesn't understand,
but I don't understand either or at least in ways she would want to hear,
I tell her I am here for her,
I tell her that I will never judge,
I wish I could make things ok,
but I can't fix this
and I can't make anything any better,
I can only listen and tell her I miss you
when she asks me why I am crying.
and I say it's because I miss you.
How can she not see that?
She tells me that the bird that flew into the house
was tied to her own symbolic death.
She gave up what she knew
but she still hasn't given up control
and so the world pushes her
and pushes her,
the house floods,
she breaks her toe,
she says it was pointing straight up to the ceiling,
she stepped on glass,
she doesn't sleep
and she doesn't sleep,
she calls me,
cries to me,
she misses the dogs
and she is angry because she doesn't understand,
but I don't understand either or at least in ways she would want to hear,
I tell her I am here for her,
I tell her that I will never judge,
I wish I could make things ok,
but I can't fix this
and I can't make anything any better,
I can only listen and tell her I miss you
when she asks me why I am crying.
Literature
In the pretext of sleep
In the pretext of sleep, my mind wanders even though I am physically exhausted. I can feel the dull ache of my tiring body slowly cooling down and relaxing. Surely, my conscious realizes that it’s time to be resting my body. The second this thought of rest arrives, it is rudely interrupted by the overwhelming thoughts of the wandering mind. I can feel my thoughts ranging from the tiniest of incidents that happened throughout the day, to my deepest insecurities. The worst part about this entire charade is that its intensity gets more when I’m the most spent physically. I guess its just a part and parcel of being an introverted over
Literature
Who am I?
Who am I? just a thought.
A thought of infinite length about myself. An eternal idea that I can't express.
I'm a lonely wind that blows away every touch. With no other gift than being incorporeal, temporary.
Not a single rest, not a single smile for the lonely being.
Trapped on my desire begging for a hug, a kiss.
Who am I? a monster. A monster with one thousand faces, all of them scary, all of them "fucked up".
I am the nightmare, my nightmare. A dream of blood and sorrow, a dream of loneliness and spikes.
A dream in which I hurt the ones I love and everybody, seeking revenge, try to erase me.
Who am I? The sadness. The pain. The ra
Literature
Eucalyptus.
i.
five bottles of light
rest on my window;
they are small,
coloured
ii.
there are stories and
stories
of sex, hidden in the
handbag;
black leather,
I could never tell
iii.
a list of ten, more
reasons to
love you;
a justification
iv.
more humid than rain;
my whole is saturated,
tired
v.
monday was lust;
tuesday boredom;
wednesday digust; and
today, I am
apathetic.
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I can't change what has happened. I don't think I'm not supposed to.
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Comments4
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she calls me,
cries to me,
she misses the dogs
and she is angry because she doesn't understand,
but I don't understand either or at least in ways she would want to hear.
cries to me,
she misses the dogs
and she is angry because she doesn't understand,
but I don't understand either or at least in ways she would want to hear.
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wow, love. wow.